


Inspiration #1

by Heiots



Series: RocinanteWrites Fics (From Tumblr) [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 04:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiots/pseuds/Heiots
Summary: Missing Year OQ





	Inspiration #1

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the delay and the format. I reckon this will stay longer than it did on Tumblr.  
> PS: Senselessverses, I saw your gif post and I love it!

Regina keeps her distance from the people. Snow and her shepherd prince invest painstaking efforts to mingle with the others, getting to know their names and making connections, all of which she holds no interest in. The one connection she ever had and needed is gone, broken forever. Henry would’ve been enough, all she would've ever needed, but he doesn't even remember her, a fact that the wretched organ caged within reminds her with every beat of agony.

She speaks only when necessary, often replying with short answers, sharp and cutting, knowing she endears herself to no one by doing so, but better closed and protected than open and vulnerable. She would keep her distance and have loneliness as a companion to her pain. The less chance she gives for people to worm their way into her heart, the less opportunity to get hurt. Besides, she’s well aware most of them hold no fondness for her. She once reigned through fear. With that gone, what is the point of retaining the royal title? She doesn’t possess the love of the people, nor their respect. Not then, and certainly not now.

Days blend together in a miserable stretch of one routine after the next: of having meals together, gatherings with the people to address any injustice committed or urgent needs, meetings with the council, and so on and so forth. It’s a schedule that works, according to Snow, who’d defended her choices when Regina had sneered during the discussion. It wasn’t that she disagreed, because a kingdom requires order to run well – she should know; it was that she couldn’t find it within herself to care.

Then there is the thorn in her side: the thief who keeps butting his nose in business that is of no concern of his. He sits at mealtimes with his cluster of Merry Men, whom, she remarks to Snow, are inconsiderately boisterous, disturbing the peace of the castle, a comment that rings false to her ears. The castle has certainly never brought her peace, but she finds solace in the silence, the quietness that is now often broken by his motley gang of thieves. During the moments where their table erupts in rowdy laughter, she’d turn her glare to them, only to find him watching her, an amused twinkle in those blue eyes of his. The attention causes her face heat up and quickens her heartbeat, a fact that annoys her greatly, but one she can’t deny, as much as she loathes admitting it.

At that same table also sits the boy she rescued from the winged monkey’s attack: the thief’s son, a child with unruly brown hair and wide eyes, which calls forth an image of another boy from her memories, flooding her chest with anguish. The boy with the curls, however, unlike her son, has a pair of dimples pressed deep in his cheeks each time he smiles, and when he does, she is unable to tear her gaze away from him.

“He’s a beautiful child, isn’t he?” Snow remarked when she’d caught Regina staring at the boy at breakfast. “His name is Roland.”

She hadn’t replied and only bent her head, turning dark eyes away as she pulled her cloak tighter around her, but the princess’s words remained with her.

Roland, the boy who had just a few seconds ago, disappeared into a clump of trees, venturing away from the castle. She cranes her neck, expecting to catch a glimpse of his father or one of the men who often accompanies him, but no one appears. She follows in the direction she’s seen him meander in. It may be that the child is playing a game with one of the men hidden close by, but if that isn’t the case, the father needs a good talking to. The forest is not a place suited for children to wander alone, especially not with deadly magical beasts on the loose.

The sound of rushing water reaches her ears. The stream in this area of the forest isn’t far. Like many of its kind, it looks deceptively calm on the surface, hiding deep waters and strong currents, and her heart pounds wildly at the thought that a little boy might be anywhere near it without supervision.

She picks up her pace, clutching at trunks and branches to keep from tripping on uneven ground. She curses the heeled boots she’s chosen today, and then not just her choice of footwear, but the entire damned outfit including the tight-fitting, impractical corset.

What she would give for a simple shirt and pants ensemble from Storybrooke.

She finally breaks through the trees, stumbling on her last step, and there on the bank, kneeling dangerously close to the stream’s edge, is the child. He is bent over, peering hard into the water, leaning closer with each second. Her breath catches, and she barely manages to keep from crying out his name. It could’ve caused him to startle, resulting in him toppling into the stream, but perhaps, just perhaps, she should have. Maybe if she’d done so, things would’ve turned out differently, but what does it matter? Pondering “what ifs” is a futile pastime; it never did her any good in the past, and it would not now.

She doesn’t take more than three steps with her arm extended, ready to pull him back from the water’s edge, or even to unleash magic if needed, when he falls. He goes over with a quiet splash, creating a temporary disturbance on the water’s surface, before it smooths over as though nothing has happened.

Her blood freezes. She stares at the now empty space he’d occupied, one arm still stretched uselessly to grasp for a child no longer there. Her chest constricting so tight she can barely breathe, she stumbles to the stream and drops to the bank, frantically scanning for a sign, any sign, of him. Magic sparks at fingertips, but even in her desperation, she knows she has no chance of bringing him up from the water’s depths, not without an exact location. She bites back a sob, heart hammering in her chest. Hands press into cold soil, knees grind against the ground.

And there! A hand breaks the surface, grasping in vain at the air. Without thinking, she plunges into the stream.

The biting cold attacks first, threatening to steal her breath. The current yanks at her, tossing her around like a ragdoll, and she stifles her panic as she kicks in one direction, then the other, disoriented. She remembers, too late, that swimming has never been one of her strengths. Her heart pounds in her ears, reminding her that time – and breath – is running out, of the boy still lost and submerged in the stream.

Despair grips her. Fairies never answered when she called for help; no supernatural being ever did, for that matter. But in the dark, swirling waters, she wished, with everything she had, for the little boy to be saved. She gave up everything she ever cared about in another world for one child, her son. What does she have to lose here?

If only this child lives.

This child, who first stared at her with curiosity, then smiled with childlike innocence. This child, who never ran from her, but dared approach with his offering of wildflowers. This child, who reminds her of her own son, the boy who is lost to her forever.

But not this one. Not yet.

A spark of heat flickers – once, twice – starting from the depths of her, before racing through her veins to the very tips of her fingers. It explodes in a flash of white in the dark waters. Her hand brushes fabric, thin cloth that she grabs onto to find it attached to a heavy weight.

_Roland._

She gathers him in her arms, frightened when he is limp and unresponsive. Struggling against the encroaching darkness, she harnesses every bit of magic she can find within her, fighting back exhaustion, and transports them both to the stream’s bank. Once on land, she lays him out on the ground gently, running her hands over his body, her eyes over his pale face. His chest moves, she sees with relief, but his lips are tinged with blue and his skin, cold. Somewhere in the haze of fatigue, she remembers reading about what to do when a child nearly drowns, back when Henry hadn’t even yet arrived.

With a clumsy hand, she tilts Roland’s head back, keeping his chin forward, and bending his arms in the positions she recalls printed on the pages, she rolls him gently onto his side till he faces her. The rest of the instructions, if she’s missed any, are a bit of a blur, slipping out of her grasp. He needs to be warm, dry, but the darkness she’s managed to hold at bay is racing towards her with frightening speed.

She lets her head drop heavily to the ground. Her body is stiff, her hands and feet numb. Sleep beckons. Before her, the features of the boy grow hazy, and the name of the child she sees right before the world goes black slips out in a sigh.

_Henry._

* * *

The Queen is ill, and rumours circulate the castle, spreading like wildfire; some say she fell into the stream by accident, others say she was trying to commit suicide due to the loss of her son. Regina knows nothing of these rumours, having spent the past hours tossing in bed, sometimes thrashing violently, within the grasp of a burning fever. She knows only the excruciating sensation of being enclosed within Hades’ personal hell, surrounded by flames burning with the fury of a thousand suns.

She knows nothing of the chaos ensured when the search party arrived back at the castle in the early hours of dawn, both woman and child swaddled in blankets – her on the Prince’s steed and the boy on his father’s horse. She knows nothing of the worry that encased the Prince’s mind, the silent prayers he made on her behalf, when he held her against his chest, cold and pale in the moonlight. She knows nothing of the Princess’s lack of sleep and constant pacing, nor her demanding the physician to save her stepmother’s life. She knows even less of the pleas and whimpers fallen from her own lips while in the throes of her nightmares, of words that incited expressions of guilt and pity from those close enough to hear, looks that if she were conscious of them would make her cringe with discomfort.

When she wakes, she finds herself in her own chambers, the sound of running footsteps fading in her ears. The air is cool, soft rays falling across the room. Her throat is parched, but she can barely lift her head from the pillow, much less find water to quench her thirst. She exhales, trying to clear the remaining vestiges of sleep clouding her mind, when she remembers.

The forest. The stream. The little boy.

Footsteps echo in the corridor, more than one person this time. A man with a weathered face and colourless eyes lays a hand on her forehead. She inhales sharply and turns her head away, partly to break contact but more so to hide the spike of anxiety shooting through her at the unfamiliar touch.

“The Queen’s fever has broken,” the stranger says. His voice is curiously deep, as if it emerges from within the ground. “But she will need much rest to recover, as well as a sufficient diet, to build up her immune system. If it pleases Your Highness, I’ll have the prescription sent to the kitchen for preparation. They will have the necessary herbs to aid the Queen in her recovery.”

“That will do just fine, Eli. Thank you.”

The rest of the conversation fades out as sleep claims her once more. The next time she awakens, it is to a gentle shaking and a voice sounding suspiciously like Snow calling her name.

“Here, Regina, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.”

The herbal concoction is pungent and bitter, and threatens to make its way back up her throat. She shuts her eyes, fighting back the nausea. She will not suffer the embarrassment of a Queen who can’t even keep her medication down. When the wave of nausea passes, Snow helps her back down onto the bed. She lets out her breath in a sigh, exhaustion weighing her eyelids down. “Roland?” she manages, voice barely above a whisper.

“Fine, and bugging his father to go out to play.” She hears a smile in the princess’s voice. “I don’t know what you did or how you did it, Regina, but it’s like that little boy never fell into the water at all.”

* * *

 

With the trees on the verge of changing colours, and on the wind the sweet scent of blossoming flowers, Regina wants nothing more than to venture out after being cooped up in her chambers. Even a short walk outdoors is better than nothing. She does as she wills, miraculously not bumping into anyone on her way there until she reaches the gardens where she sees him.

The thief.

Irritation flares. She stiffens, pointedly ignoring him as she steps past him into the gardens.

“Will Your Majesty spare me a moment of her time?”

She walks on.

“Please.”

It is not his plea, but a sudden wave of light-headedness that gives her pause. Blindly, she reaches out for something, anything, to keep from toppling over. When his hand grasps her arm, she wants nothing more than to shake it away, but finding a lack of strength to do so, she squeezes her eyes shut instead, willing herself to stay conscious. His fingers tighten on her arm, holding her up, and she finds herself grudgingly appreciative of his assistance. When she’s certain once more of her ability to stand on her feet, he steps away, allowing distance between them, and it isn’t right that such a simple act should evoke the mixture of conflicting emotions within her.

“What do you want?” she asks shortly as she attempts to regain her composure.

“I merely wish to thank you for saving Roland.”

She stares at him. “I didn’t do it for you.”

His eyes are the colour of Daniel’s, she realizes with a start. As soon as the thought comes to her, she drops her gaze. How absurd to be comparing a common thief to the man she loved.

“Perhaps it’s time you take better care of your child,” she adds, an edge to her voice.

He does not bother fending off her accusation, but nods instead, which surprises her. Snow mentioned that the thief had been out on patrol that day, leaving one of the Merry Men to watch over his son. Roland’s evading his caretaker hadn’t been the result of Robin’s lack of care, but of a child seeking his own will. She ought to know. After all, it wasn’t so long ago when Henry stole a credit card and ran away to Boston on his own.

Still, one doesn’t always manage to regain what one loses; the thief ought to learn that.

“The boy is all right?” she asks.

“Thankfully, yes. He suffered no ill side effects. He would like to thank you personally, if Your Majesty permits. He’s been asking to meet you, but we heard you were battling a fever. I promised him, perhaps, when you were feeling well enough, he could drop by to say thank you.” His lips twitch, threatening dimples. “He’s very excited.”

She cannot help the pleased curving of her mouth. She would not say no to seeing Roland again. She lifts her gaze to the thief, noticing how his eyes dip to linger at her smile, and a flush comes to her face. But she is a Queen, not some starry-eyed seventeen-year-old girl.

She turns away, hiding the redness of her cheeks. “Roland shall have what he wants,” she says, keeping her tone neutral as she sweeps past him. “I will see him at dinner tonight.”

* * *

 

Torches flicker on the walls, with a fire roaring in its usual place behind the Royals’ table. Voices amplified by the acoustics of the castle, echoing and pounding in her head. The Great Hall at suppertime is more than what she bargained for, though she can tell it pleases the Charmings that she is eating with them instead of holing up in her room. Were it not for Roland, she would most certainly be back in her chambers instead of putting herself through suffering another public appearance.

“Regina, you’re not eating.”

Yet another reason to have dinner brought to her chambers. She would have her meal – or in this case, not have it – if not in peace, then at least in blissful silence.

“Enough with the mothering, Snow,” she says, reaching for her goblet of wine. “Last time I checked, it’s still my body, and free will does exist in the Enchanted Forest.”

A crease forms between Snow’s brows. “We’re only concerned about you. You’ve barely had anything to eat at breakfast, you didn’t show up at all for lunch and weren’t in your chambers when we went looking for you. Thank goodness Robin had the good sense to—”

Regina grinds her teeth, irate. “The thief. Of course he would go running to you the moment he found out where I was. Dull-witted peasant.”

“Hardly. You fell into a stream and nearly drowned, Regina. You were delirious for nearly 48 hours and bed-ridden for almost a week. Did you think we wouldn’t panic when you went missing?”

“I didn’t fall in,“ she corrects. "I jumped in.” As if realizing she’s made it sound worse, she straightens, adding loftily, “To save his son.”

“Regardless, we just want you safe.”

"I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself, thank you very much.”

“Recent events prove otherwise,” David mumbles from his seat, and she glares at him. He opens his mouth as if to defend himself when Snow places a well-aimed nudge in his side, and he stays silent, shoving a spoonful of potato and meat stew into his mouth.

“Point is,” Snow continues as if her husband hadn’t so rudely interrupted. “You’re part of our family, Regina. We care for you, and all we want for you is—” she pauses. “Is to be happy.”

“Snow, if you are about to let loose with another one of your hope speeches again, I swear to God—”

“Your M’jesty?”

The conversation comes to a halt. There, with his mop of curls barely showing above the table, stands Roland in his brown tunic and pants tucked into his boots, a bunch of flowers in his hands as he shifts nervously from one foot to another.

“Roland,” Snow greets with an encouraging smile. “How are you today?”

“Very well, Your Highness,” the boy replies with a form of a bow, which is more of a stiff dip of his head, an unusual, but somewhat humorous gesture coming from a four-year-old. As David chuckles out loud, Roland blinks at the Prince, eyes darting from the blond-headed royal to the ladies. “F-for Your M’jesty,” he says, stuttering slightly, stretching out his arms in the direction of Regina as he presents his collection of wildflowers. “Thank you for saving me. I am forever in-indeb-indebt—” he pauses, frowning.

“Indebted?” Snow offers, a twinkle in her eyes.

The little boy smiles with relief. “Yes,” he says with another half-bow. “Thank you.” He glances up, an expression of stunned awe and pleasure crossing his face as Regina takes the colourful bouquet from him.

“Looks like the Queen has just gained herself a little knight,” David remarks once the three of them are alone again at their table. He nods in the direction of the Merry Men’s table, where Roland had returned only a few seconds ago. Now back in his father’s embrace, the boy is stiff and formal no longer. He wraps his arms around his father’s neck, his shy gaze on Regina, and when his mouth curves up, she can’t help the responding smile that spreads across her face.


End file.
